Extraordinary (30 page)

“It feels that way sometimes, but—” Phoebe stopped. There was no point in arguing human time and space with a faerie manticore. She looked hopelessly around the garden that had once seemed so beautiful. There was the same glorious profusion of flowers, the same curving path, the same archway, and the same thick stone wall that had materialized with such finality behind Mallory when she abandoned Phoebe once and for all. She remembered hearing about a garden in England in which all the plantings were poisonous.

She sat abruptly on one of the low walls that edged the central garden. Here she had a view of the hazy mountains in the distance and of the flowers, from which a couple of worker bees were busy collecting pollen because, after all, their world was not about to end. Maybe they were faerie bees. Phoebe had a brief, violent fantasy of killing them—smashing them with her shoe or even with her bare hands—and then blinked in astonishment. Normally, she was a little afraid of bees, and she was not violent. Was her personality transforming too, along with her lungs?

The manticore sank down to the ground at Phoebe's feet, much the way a large pet would. But a pet would never watch her the way he did. “Have you any more questions?” he asked. “I am instructed to answer.”

Phoebe's primary question was still the old one. How could he—how could Mallory—have done what they had to her? It was evil. Her incomprehension kept rising like bile in her throat. She wanted to batter him, to scream her rage, to shame him. And Mallory. But she knew their answer. It should not matter to her anymore, anyway. They were what they were. They had done what they had done. They felt they were justified.

Would she have done the same as they, in their place? She didn't know. She thought hypothetically for a moment of Benjamin. Would she betray him to his death, to save, say, her mother? She didn't think she would. She thought she would talk to Benjamin instead and try with him to find another way for her mother. But she didn't really know.

And what if the survival of an entire race hung in the balance? What if there was no other way? Was murder always murder? Was killing someone innocent ever justifiable?

She just couldn't believe that it was.

Phoebe said, very calmly, “Tell me how exactly I'm going to be murdered.”

The manticore turned his large, mild, unblinking eyes on Phoebe. “You will drink poison.”

Even as she winced, Phoebe thought that poison sounded better than a knife across her throat.

Maybe. Unless it was slow ...

“Will it hurt?” she asked, still calm.

The manticore shifted position. “The poison will not hurt. It will numb you.”

“Wait. The poison won't kill me?”

“No,” said the manticore. “You will lift the goblet to your lips yourself, and swallow. Before this, you will say aloud to all of us that you are the descendant of Mayer Rothschild, and that you are ordinary. The queen will tell you what to say.”

“What if I don't do it?” said Phoebe. “What if I refuse to say those things and drink the poison?”

He shrugged again. “As the queen said, you can be forced. You have already said the words once. That gives her power over you.”

“And once I'm numb? What happens then? A knife across the throat?”

“You will not be afraid,” said the manticore. “And it will not hurt.”

“Oh,” said Phoebe in a small voice.

Should she fight to the end? She thought of the queen's promise that, if Phoebe cooperated, her mother would live.

And the faerie people too. Was that important? A whole people. A whole people and culture threatened with extermination. All of Phoebe's Jewish roots whispered to her that this
was
important.

But she wasn't doing anything to them. They had brought it on themselves. Or rather, the queen had. Or could you say that Mayer had, although unintentionally? Did that make Phoebe responsible now?

She couldn't sort it all out.

She looked bleakly back into the manticore's eyes. And saw them narrow, change; saw them focus sharply on something behind her a second before he sprang to his feet, spine arched. Phoebe turned her head, following his gaze.

The wall between the faerie world and the real world had again vanished. Once more, Mallory stood in the newly opened portal. She was now fully as thin and starved-looking as the other faeries, her clothing even more ragged.

But Phoebe only focused on Mallory for an instant, because standing beside her was Benjamin. And though afterward Phoebe had no memory of getting up or of running, suddenly she was all the way across the clearing and flinging herself at him.

Benjamin stumbled a little from the impact, but recovered.

“Pheeb.” He hugged her hard. “Pheeb.”

Phoebe hugged back with force. He was solid, real, and a little sweaty. Maybe also in need of a shower. But miraculously, miraculously, he was here with her.

Or not so miraculously.

Phoebe turned her head to the side and there was Mallory a few steps away. Mallory, with her eyes unreadable and her face immobile. Mallory, with the portal now firmly closed again behind her.

Mallory had brought Benjamin. Alarm surged through Phoebe. Why? Was he another hostage to make sure Phoebe did as she was told? How dare they? Benjamin had nothing to do with anything—his only crime was in being Phoebe's friend. Would they hurt him, kill him too?

She swung fully away from Benjamin to face her former friend. But her thoughts must have been written all over her face, because Mallory spoke before Phoebe could say a word.

“Don't worry, Phoebe. No harm of any kind is intended toward Benjamin. He's just here for you. When everything's over, I'll take him home. He'll be safe.”

When everything's over
. Phoebe clenched her fists. “Call it what it is, Mallory. When I'm dead. That's what you mean. Unless you're lying about this too.”

“I—yes. That's what I mean. And I am not lying.”

“Really? You're not using him to blackmail me? Manipulate me? Torture me?”

“No!”

“Why should I believe you?” Phoebe didn't wait for an answer. She turned again to Benjamin. She put her cheek against his skinny chest and tightened her arms around him again, and felt his tighten again around her.

But extra tension had entered his body at her words. He whispered in her ear, “Pheeb, I never thought of her manipulating you. She told me that I could come and be here for you, that you needed a friend now. That's what she said.”

“She's a liar,” Phoebe said, her voice muffled. “She's always been a liar. But I'm still glad to see you. I can't believe you came.”

“Of course I came. When she told me—once I believed her—well, of course I'm here.”

Phoebe thought that there was no such thing as
of course.
You never knew, with people. A friend might or might not be for real. Only a crisis would tell.

But he was for real. He was Benjamin, her friend.

They had the whole afternoon together. By the time Phoebe managed to step slightly away from Benjamin—and an inch was all the distance she could bear—Mallory had vanished. Then the manticore withdrew, without words, to the far end of the clearing, and though he still kept watch, the distance was enough to provide Phoebe and Benjamin with a small illusion of privacy.

They sat down immediately by the portal. Phoebe felt shaky with emotion, but the real problem was that Benjamin was wearing ankle shackles. They were made of soft moss, but a few attempts of Phoebe's to tear them away proved their strength. “Ouch!” she said involuntarily, and rubbed her bruised fingers.

“Resistance is futile,” Benjamin quoted nerdily, and smiled almost shyly at Phoebe. “Hello,” he said then.

“Hello,” said Phoebe.

They looked at each other. Then they looked away. Then back.

Benjamin leaned up against the wall, muttering something about keeping near it, just in case they had an opportunity to escape. Phoebe smiled bleakly. She harbored no hope of escape for herself. And whether Benjamin was an intentional hostage or not didn't matter. Like her mother, that was what he was. She prayed Mallory had been telling the truth about Benjamin's eventual safety. She prayed he would get to go home to Nantucket. Which she would never see again.

But at least she had her friend with her—the friend who had never done her any harm. The knowledge filled her with grateful tears that Phoebe was determined to keep inside.

They sat close together, side by side, thighs and arms pressing against each other. Benjamin was talking softly, almost whispering in Phoebe's ear as he held her with one skinny arm, and eventually Phoebe was able to take in what he was saying: that Mallory had simply appeared by the side of the road in Nantucket, catching Benjamin as he was bicycling home from school, and told him the whole incredible story.

“You believed her?”

He looked a little defensive. “I don't know if I did or not. Maybe I decided to, uh, suspend disbelief. She said you needed me and that if I would step with her behind a particular tree—it was just an ordinary pine, Phoebe, not even a very old one—then I would see you.” He shrugged. “She said there was a doorway between Nantucket and, uh, here. One step and I would be with you. So I went. And here you are. Unless I'm having a nightmare, which I sort of hope I am.”

He shrugged awkwardly. “But I've been so worried about you. All these weeks, Pheeb, with your mother sick. And also I was worried that I—well, that I ruined things between us. By, you know, telling you I cared about you. I thought maybe that was why you weren't answering my emails very much. But it doesn't matter what I said, you know that, right? We're friends. We're always friends. And this stuff—this faerie stuff . . .” Benjamin's voice trailed off. He gestured at the garden, at the manticore, clearly at a loss for words.

“It's not a nightmare. It's real,” Phoebe said. She too kept her voice low. “But if you want, you can try pinching yourself, and me, to see if it goes away. If we'll wake up.”

Benjamin said hesitantly, “And this stuff about you, uh, dying ... ?”

“The faeries think they have to sacrifice me to survive. I thought you said Mallory explained it all.”

“Yes. But like you said, she's a liar. Even if she weren't, I'd want to hear what you have to say. Tell me what happened. Everything. We need to go over it. There's got to be a way out.”

“Oh,” Phoebe said. “Well. All right. Um. Keep in mind that probably we're being listened to. I can't imagine that anything we say here isn't overheard.”

Benjamin nodded.

Phoebe told him everything that had happened since she had talked to Mrs. Tolliver, including the conclusion of Mallory's tale about Mayer Rothschild, and ending with what had happened when Phoebe met the faerie queen. As usual, Benjamin listened without interrupting, though for the first time Phoebe could feel from the way his body tensed that he was having trouble forcing himself to remain silent.

When she had finished and turned fully to face him—it had helped her, in telling the story, to remain side by side, in physical contact but without seeing his face directly—she found he was crying. But even though his face was distorted, it wasn't from the tears, but from what she recognized incredulously as pure rage.

“Let them die,” he said. “Phoebe, just refuse. Let them all die.”

“But refusing won't work. They said that. And my mother—”

“Let them die!
Let's at least try this. Don't drink their poison. Don't repeat their so-called ritual words. Maybe they can't make you, after all. Who knows? And if they all die, that might release your mother too.” Benjamin's voice rose. “And you know what else? You're not ordinary! How could you ever say that or think it? That's another one of Mallory's lies—not to mention that . . . that other one. They talked you into it. You get that, right? You're wonderful, Phoebe. Kind, thoughtful, smart, fun. A good friend, all these years. And it's nothing to do with your family, either. It's just you.”

“Benjamin, I—”

“And listen. Phoebe, I just have to say it. I love you. I just—I love you. I hope that doesn't offend you. I know it's not what you feel about me.”

“I'm not offended,” Phoebe said, once it was clear he had stopped talking. In fact, Phoebe felt so far from offended that she was vaguely astonished Benjamin would even think it a possibility.

“Oh. Good,” said Benjamin. “I don't expect to talk about it. I don't even want to talk about it. I just want you to know. And now—” He set his jaw. “Now let's talk about getting you out of this. Suppose you just say you're extraordinary tonight, right to their faces. Say it like you mean it, instead of saying you're ordinary. Say it like you believe it, which you should. And then you don't drink their poison. Can you do that?”

“
Do not go gentle into that good night
,” said Phoebe.

“What?”

“It's a poem. Dylan Thomas.
Old age should burn and rave at close of day / Rage, rage, against the dying of the light.
Not that I'm old. The point is that you should go down fighting. You shouldn't give in to death.”

“That's what I'm talking about.”

“And if my mother dies?” Or, Phoebe thought, if they kill you?

“I've been thinking about that.
They're
responsible for her being in a coma. Not you.”

“But—”

“And she'd want you to fight. You know she would.”

Phoebe did know.